Signal to Noise
by Nikoru-chan
Summary: In the Supernatural: Rising Son TPB, John Winchester protected his six year old from all comers - demonic and otherwise - with the help of his eldest son. What would happen if somehow, in some other world, he hadn't?
1. Chapter 1

Signal to Noise

Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to Kripke and his associates. I am not him. Or, y'know, them.

A/N: yeah, still just toe-dipping in Supernatural-verse at this point. Five handscrawled pages of plot-outlines for fics in a fandom I've still not seen all of is definitely just toe dipping, really. Sigh.

A/N 2: SPOILERS: so my local library had this copy of the Supernatural: Rising Son TPB, and I read it, and then I had to wonder, what if - somewhere, in some universe - John had actually listened to the hunters baying for a six-year-old Sam's blood?

This was . . . a complication.

Not a problem, no. At least, not necessarily a problem. But it was definitely a complication. Dean chewed his lip thoughtfully, tonguing the split in it. He'd have to tell Sammy, he though muzzily. His kid brother would be proud of him, pleased at him choosing the four syllable noun over the two despite the concussion. Proud and relieved and then - hiding it behind bantering - would offer an even better choice of words from his college-boy vocabulary to show he was okay, too. Smiling, inviting his big brother in on the joke. And then they could snark at each other for a bit, fit back into that old hand-in-glove camaraderie. Reassure each other that their injuries were minor enough for raillery.

Yeah. That'd be good. He'd ask Sam for his word-of-the-day choice of descriptives for this particular turn of events.

He'd ask, might even listen to the response, too.

Just as soon as either of the two Sam Winchesters currently sprawling across the hard concrete floor in different but equally uncomfortable-looking poses woke up enough to answer.


	2. Chapter 2

EARLIER. . .

As a general rule, the average Hunter is not particularly well versed in the finer points of spell construction.

Spell _deconstruction_, usually with extreme prejudice, is by necessity almost invariably something of a forte, but actually making the magic work rather than destroying it? The general consensus within the North American Hunter population is that using magic is somewhat akin to wearing high performance rollerskates while standing on the well-greased and steeply angulated slope of disaster, with becoming Something To Be Hunted a very clear end point at the bottom. In a stunning display of hypocrisy, nobody ever demurs about bindings or containment circles.

Of course, at any given point in time, nothing is quite that simple.

A couple of the more well-respected moderates, such as Bobby Singer or the late Father Jim, knew enough about the Art to manage the odd summoning, and while this was viewed with more than a little suspicion, there were few would would argue that being able to compel one's supernatural prey to a site of their choosing was a _bad _idea. At any rate, Singer's proven track record of success coupled with an extensive knowledge base - one that had saved more than a few lives on more than a few occasions - insulated him from any particularly vicious reprisals.

But this particular summoning had had nothing to do with Singer, which in a way was part of the problem.

The hunters performing the summoning in question would have welcomed Singer's help, though they refused to admit they needed it. But the problem was that Singer had long since chosen sides, and his decision had placed him firmly in the Winchester boys' lineup.

The younger of whom, it was readily apparent - at least to this particular group - fit the criteria of 'supernatural prey' like he was born to it.

Who knew? Perhaps he was. The certainly was something suspicious about that house fire in his nursery. Sam _probably_ hadn't killed anyone - that they knew of - but he was psychic, demon tainted. It was only a matter of time.

Hunting him brought it's own rather unique set of problems. Problems that came in the shape of one John Winchester and, later, after the elder's death in rather unusual circumstances, his son Dean.

Hunting a creature that had it's own Hunter to keep it safe opened a barrel of worms, particularly when that prey possessed a rather formidable intellect and an equally efficacious education in current Best Practice in the Hunting world.

The Hunters had used this argument to justify their decision to resort to rather unorthodox methods, hence the summoning. They figured that by setting up in the industrial district of a city where the brothers had taken a werecat case, and timing the spell to start just after moonset, when the beast had either been killed or turned back, they'd catch the Winchesters tired, perhaps injured. Ideally they'd be separated, so Dean couldn't stop his brother when the spell took hold, forcing his steps towards the abandoned warehouse, clouding his mind, cajoling, enticing, commanding that he _come . . . come . . ._

That part of the plan worked perfectly.

By the time the spell-mazed and summoned Sam staggered into the abandoned warehouse, feet bloodied through his worn-through shoes from the jagged glass and metal that littered the area around the building, the summoners were readying their silver knives, the salt-mixed buckshot comfortably chambered.

Dazed as their prey was, it took disarmingly little effort to fire the drugged dart at the tall, lanky form, and mere moments later drag his quiescent body into the King David binding circle before manacling him hand and foot. Cold iron. Specially forged.

Nobody knew exactly _what _Sam Winchester was, so the discussion about how to destroy him had been lively. They'd decided earlier on that exorcism, then a silver knife, holy water, communion wafers, beheading, and burning would be the best method.

That part of the plan didn't work at all.

They'd expected the man to rouse; after all, the tranquilizers weren't going to last forever. They'd expected him to move within the binding circle, though be unable to leave it.

They hadn't expected their summoning spell to still be in action after their prey arrived.

They hadn't expected a jagged slash of a portal, somehow even darker than a cloud of demon smoke, to tear open the air above the circle. The hole, barely half a meter across, seemed to suck in the light, chewing it up.

It didn't spit out the second figure, not exactly. Clothed in a hooded jacket whose worn black seemed almost laughable next to the eye-wrenching darkness of the portal, the figure crawled out on his hands and knees, straight into the containment circle. The hunters barely had time to raise a silent prayer of thanks for that particular landing site before the portal silently folded in on itself.

The second figure rested back on its knees, black gloved hand reaching for its hood and sliding it off.

The face beneath the mussed, overly long brown hair was thinner than the one they were used to and frighteningly pale, but unmistakably familiar.

Sam stared impassively at the bound, unconscious figure of himself, the containment circle, the summoning altar, and the heavily armed men in front of him.

"Which of you jerks hijacked my portal with your summoning spell?" he demanded, swaying slightly.

The shortest of the Hunters staring open mouthed at him recovered first. Strongly built, though running to fat, his rough voice was only slightly softened by a Southern twang.

"What are you? Why are there two of you?"

_Close enough to an answer,_ Sam decided, and when the roiling queasiness from having a portal suddenly shifted mid-travel converted itself into something more than mere nausea, he had the satisfaction of seeing the result spatter the man's pants and boots before darkness of a different kind claimed him.

The Hunters stared down at the two unconscious bodies in the circle with a mixture of confusion and apprehension.

"There's two of them! What do we do now?"


	3. Chapter 3

In the end, they settled for cuffing the two of them together, both left wrists bound in the specially forged iron, the rights tied in what would have a much more prosaic length of rope, had it not been purified and blessed by priests from Koya-San for use in temple ceremonies. (Nicholas was remarkably cagey about how he'd obtained it.) Neither material appeared to harm the pair more than the rough manhandling necessary to see them appropriately fettered did. Nor did either one stir when thoroughly doused with holy water, and while both looked pale and ill, it was anyone's guess whether that was the effect of the containment circle or the sedative drugs.

Bickering, the hunters stripped them both down to boxers, checking for concealed weaponry and charms, noting one Sam's anti-possession tattoo with professional admiration, and the other Sam's leather and silver wrist-bracer with consternation: None of the esoteric symbols pressed into the metal and leather piece were marks the Hunters recognized, and obviously silver wouldn't work on at least one half of the pair.

In a way, this was their downfall; each of them had an opinion as to the Sams' disposal, and each voiced it vociferously. Busily debating the pros and cons of simple exorcism and beheading versus witch-dunking and burning alive, the Hunters committed a rookie sin.

They left the skylight unguarded.

It wasn't _quite_ the batman-esque entrance Dean would have liked, but the heavy transport pallet he lobbed through the glass more than served it's purpose as a distraction. The salt and silver buckshot he and Bobby were still armed with (courtesy of the werecat hunt Sam had been so rudely pulled from) was more than adequate to the task of rendering most of the rest of the hunters unconscious.

Seeing the bruise darkening the disturbingly slack face of his kid brother and the blood still oozing sluggishly from his cut feet, Dean had great difficulty _not_ reaching for the silver-loaded handgun. True, the chambered rounds were intended for less human targets, but they'd kill a man just as efficiently as lead. Bobby's backhanded pistol whip across the skull of the last of them was short and vicious, and made it pretty obvious he'd spotted the damage sported by the youngest of their party as well.

"There's two of them," Dean noted, in an unconscious echo of the Hunters he'd so summarily dispatched. Barely pausing, he stepped over one to kneel by the other; despite the similarities of face and build, he had no trouble picking _his_ kid brother from between the two. "Sam. Hey, Sammy," he gently cajoled, cradling the other man's head in his hands. "Time to wake up." When he was rewarded with a soft groan, he raised his eyes to Bobby. The other hunter was busily inspecting the apparently still-comatose facsimile of his brother.

A non-verbal agreement conveyed by a single glance saw Bobby rapidly recite an exorcism, his Latin clipped with tension. The total lack of black smoke saw both relax, though bobby opened his hip flask and watered the pair just to be sure.

When an oak and elm talisman proved similarly harmless, Dean started attacking the lock on the manacles with gusto and a paperclip.

Shrugging, Bobby turned his knife to the rope, though he cut only their Sam free.

"What do you think it is?" Dean asked casually, his attention largely focussed on a pat down of his brother. Finding only minor injuries, he relaxed enough to pay attention to Bobby's response.

"No problem with silver, so it's not a shifter. Oak, elm and cold hard iron rule out a Fae glamour, and the shinto rope would have forced even up to a kyuubi-level kitsune back into its fur."

"Manitou?" "Unlikely. They tend to go more for the inanimate object look."

"Do you think . . . Do you think perhaps it's a construct put together by old Yellow Eyes? Some remnant from his grand plan?" The tension thrumming through Dean's shoulders gave lie to the casual tone of his voice.

"Doubt it. If it was, the holy water would have done a fair job of hissing and smoking."

"Yeah. Yeah, you're right." Dean brightened obviously relieved, "Clone, perhaps?"

"Clone? How?"

"Like the Superman comics."

Bobby rolled his eyes at that, though Dean continued unperturbed. "Still, I bet we can exterminate it if we have to."

"Yeah? How?"

"With overkill: whatever we do to it, we do it a _lot_."

"As if _that_ ever works." "Hey! A guy can dream!"

"Well, not for long he can't. I for one plan for us to be long gone by the time these idjits wake up." Refastening the iron manacle onto the other wrist of the second Sam, Bobby paused to rummage in his satchel. Hesitating, and then shrugging, Dean tied the rope back around the figure's arms for good measure. Doubly-bound, the man still didn't stir.

"When Sam wakes up he can tell us a little more about what sort of creature we're dealing with." Bobby commented, and Dean nodded.

"Can you carry it?"

For an answer, Bobby pulled out a thin drape emblazoned with a portable containment circle large enough to fully wrap up the lanky deadweight of the unconscious body. Better safe than sorry, despite his words to the older Winchester boy. Grimacing behind him, Dean carefully lifted his brother over his shoulder. He'd have preferred to jostle the younger man less, but practice and experience allowed him to continue to handle his shotgun this way, and being armed was always preferable.

"Let's get outta here. This critter has a date with a certain panic room."

Moments later, Sam gently deposited on the backseat of the impala and his presumed doppelganger less-gently deposited in the heavily warded trunk, the old black chevy purred out onto the street.

They left behind a trail of very angry hunters and a dead werecat. They took with them a mystery wrapped in an enigma; a puzzle both Bobby and Dean were determined to solve.

Neither had any idea just how complicated that would prove to be.

SPN SPN SPN SPN

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